


Kings of Manchester

by othersideofthis (hikaru)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2014-2015 NHL Season, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-23 04:08:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4862537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikaru/pseuds/othersideofthis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My point is -- you either live long enough to become the fourth line AHL plug you made fun of your whole career, or you die a hero."</p><p>"What the fuck, Biz?" Mike's laughing despite himself. "What the fuck."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kings of Manchester

**Author's Note:**

  * For [armillarysphere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/armillarysphere/gifts).



> I fully intended this story to be _hilarious_ and then it grew feelings. I hope you enjoy it anyway.
> 
> Thanks greatly to fouronforeplay for the beta, and to hawkwardly for letting me yell at her about this fic. 
> 
> One content note: two characters overhear, and eventually intentionally listen in on, an unknown couple having sex in a hotel room.

When Mike finds out he’s getting sent down, he holds his shit together just long enough to finish his conversation with Lombardi in a way that _doesn’t_ get him into more trouble.

“You know this isn’t a decision I made lightly,” Lombardi says, and: “You work on the things we talked about and I’ll be the first person rooting to bring you back up,” and: “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself, Michael,” and it’s all a little much for Mike to hear right now.

So Mike deals with it in the best way he knows how: he makes a few calls to ask other people to handle the details of his move, then gets drunk and sends a series of increasingly belligerent texts to Jeff, who only calls after Mike sends him a series of photos of the growing mound of empties in the recycling bin.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Jeff says.

“Celebrating!” Mike tries to sit back up and fails, sliding further down the couch, instead. “I’m gonna be king of Manchester, Carts.”

“Christ,” Jeff mutters. Mike can’t see him, but he imagines that Jeff’s rolling his eyes and mouthing _please help me_ to Megan, the way he always does when he doesn’t want to deal with something. “Look, can you just, I don’t know, take a breather right now? You’re not going to fucking make this go away by being an asshole about it.”

“Maybe I’m due for another Calder, huh? Too bad you’re not getting busted down with me, it could be the glory days all over again.” Mike’s got his ring from his season with the Phantoms somewhere; he wonders if he should get it out of storage and bring it to Manchester, show the kids what happens when your team is lockout-stacked.

Jeff pauses. “Well, I mean. That’s… ah. At least you’re being positive?”

“That’s the fucking spirit, eh?” Mike laughs. “Fake it ‘til you make it or some shit.”

“Look, you just -- go sleep it off, will you? Call me when you’re sober if you _actually_ want to talk about this.” Jeff hangs up before Mike can even respond.

Mike takes a selfie, giving Jeff the middle finger, then hits send and laughs about it. Besides, what else is he going to do?

*

Mike arrives in Manchester hungover and disoriented. The team’s supposed to send someone to pick him up, according to a chain of emails he has no recollection of participating in. He tugs his ballcap lower over his eyes as he heads towards baggage claim, scrolling through emails on his phone instead of paying attention to his surroundings.

“Mike fucking Richards,” he hears and Mike stops short, his head snapping up to look.

“Ah, fuck me.” Mike’s not sure whether he should laugh or not, but there’s Paul Bissonnette standing in front of him, wearing a chauffeur’s cap and aviators, holding up an iPad that reads -- yeah, that sure says _Mike Fuckin Richards_ on the screen.

“Jesus Christ,” Mike mutters. “Put that shit away, come on.”

Biz laughs. “You afraid someone’s gonna see?” He tucks the iPad back into his bag, though, and Mike breathes a sigh of relief. “First rule of Manchester, Mikey, no one gives two fucks about your dumb ass getting busted down to play with plugs like me.”

Mike pinches the bridge of his nose. “Right, but, like, can you not…” He gestures broadly at Biz. “With your…” Mike reaches out and flicks the brim of Biz’s cap. “All this?”

“Aren’t you a real fucking Debbie Downer?” Biz rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Go find your bag, big shot, before you freak out or something.”

Mike sighs, then turns to the baggage carousel. He sneaks a picture of Biz over his shoulder, captions it _FML_ , then sends it to Jeff.

 _enjoy ur new bff_ , Jeff texts back, unhelpful as ever.

*

Mike didn’t ask for a Paul Bissonnette-led tour of Manchester, but he sure as shit gets one. Biz takes Mike to his hotel, to the grocery store, past the rink, past his favorite bar.

“So after games,” Biz says, gesturing at the bar as they go past, “we -- well, us _real adults_ \-- usually go grab some drinks here. It’s not bad. The girls are okay, nothing special. They’re not models, but, man, you know, you take what you can get. Bartenders are pretty easy on the eyes, too.”

“Look, I’m not looking for--” Mike gives up, cutting himself off, and sighs. “Listen, can you just take me to the fucking Enterprise so I can pick up a car? How about that?”

Biz tosses his hands up in the air. “And skip the rest of the Biznasty tour of Manchester?”

“I think I’ll live.”

“I was just getting ready to show you where all the magic happens.”

“Biz, man, come on.” Mike wonders if he could just roll out of the car. They’re moving slowly enough through town that he thinks he wouldn’t be too badly injured. “It’s been a long fucking day, I just want to get my car and go to sleep.”

“You’re the dumb fuck who didn’t sleep on the redeye, but who am I to judge?”

“The _car rental_ , dude, come on.” Mike presses his face against the window and watches the trees go by.

*

Mike assumes he’s seen the last of Biz until they hit the ice for practice, but bright and early the next morning, there’s a suspiciously loud knock at his door.

“Housekeeping!” Biz calls out in a cheesy falsetto. Mike groans and covers his face with a pillow. He realizes quickly that he doesn’t have any choice but to answer, though, since Biz just starts pounding on the door.

“Why are you here?” Mike asks as he swings the door open.

“Come on, I’m giving you a ride to the rink, I’ll introduce you to everyone there.” Mike starts to close the door, but Biz jams his foot up against the frame to keep it open.

“I don’t need a babysitter.” Mike gives up on the door and walks back into the room. “I can get to the rink myself. I’ll even be on time. You don’t have to _make sure_ I show up.”

“I am _offended_ ,” Biz gasps. Mike looks back over his shoulder; Biz has one hand pressed over his heart, the other flutters at his forehead. “I’m here as a friend, not as _Team Dad_.” Biz shudders.

“Well, whatever you’re here for, just…” Mike pushes his fingers through his hair. “Just fucking don’t, okay? I’m gonna show up, I’m gonna do my job. I’m not _that_ much of an asshole.”

Biz holds up both of his hands. He actually looks _upset_ and Mike doesn’t quite know what to do with that information. “Come the fuck on,” Biz says. “I’m not your fucking keeper. I just thought maybe you’d want some company.”

Mike sighs and looks around the sparse room. “Fucking -- fine. _Fine_.  Give me ten, then I need to get some shit out of the car. Whatever. _Whatever._ ”

*

When Mike walks into the locker room, it’s immediately clear why Biz wanted to make sure they showed up together. Taped up over every surface of what Mike can only assume is his stall are print-outs of Mike’s draft day photo. There he is, dozens of pictures of him with his bad hair and nervous smile and everything, in his brand new Flyers jersey.

“Oh. Ha ha.” Mike rolls his eyes as he reaches out to tug at the corner of the picture taped over his nameplate, pulling it down. “Very funny.”

Biz just shrugs and flops down in his own stall. The rest of the team is eerily silent as Mike pulls off more photos so he can at least sit down in his own stall. “Anyhow,” Mike says. “Hi.” He waves at his teammates, who all look out at him uncertainly. “Fuckin’ A, guys, you’re allowed to say something.”

“So you’re Biz’s new best friend?” asks one of the guys.

“Aw, don’t be jealous, boo,” Biz says, catching him in a headlock. “You’re still my number one, Drew.”

Mike pulls his skates down from the hooks and props them up against the bottom of the stall. “Hey, Biz decided this all on his own. Complain to him.”

Biz ruffles Drew’s hair and laughs. “See? Rick even said so, you’re still my number one.”

*

On the ice, everything’s -- well, maybe not back to normal, but life makes sense to Mike in a way it hadn’t when he was playing ten minutes a night and hoping he didn’t get scratched. Besides, if he crosses his eyes just right whenever he looks at his teammates, he can almost fool himself into thinking that the black-and-white lion on their jerseys is really a crown.

Sure, the rink and the guys around him ruin that illusion pretty quickly, but Mike’s always been pretty good at lying to himself.

He skates in lazy loops behind the net, scooping up pucks and firing them down along the boards, then flips a puck up on the blade of his stick and bounces it a few times. Mike feels a stick tap against the back of his legs and doesn’t bother turning around. There’s only one person it would be, anyway. “What do you want, Biz?”

“Kids rubbing off on you, you doing that shit?” Biz bumps into Mike, making him drop the puck.

“Gotta keep up with all these 19-year olds somehow.” Mike swats at the puck before Biz can get to it. “Jealous you can’t do that?”

Biz shrugs. “I know what I’m good at.”

Mike tugs at the chinstrap of his helmet, unfastening it, and turns to narrow his eyes at Biz. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Biz swipes at the last puck, whiffs on it, then kicks it instead. “Doesn’t have to mean anything, but… how about you and me go grab a drink? Get some fucking pizza and a six pack.”

“Seriously?” Mike raises his eyebrows.

“Hey, some of us are making peanuts here, it can’t be steak and champagne every night.” Biz shoves Mike’s shoulder, pushing him towards the boards. “But seriously, let’s like … pick up a fucking pizza and bitch about the glory days or something.”

Mike’s pretty sure _his_ glory days and Biz’s are two totally different things, but he doesn’t think it’s worth it to try to have that conversation. “You’re not going to give up until I say yes, are you?” Mike asks as he steps off the ice, Biz following close behind.

“Yep.” Biz grins. “If you keep saying no, I’ll just charm the front desk girl into giving me your room key, so you might as well just hang out with me.”

Mike tugs his helmet off. “Fine, pizza and a beer, whatever.”

“But only the _best_ pizza for you, you’ll see.” Biz whacks his stick against Mike’s calves again, then rushes ahead into the locker room. “Guess who’s got a date with a fuckin’ Olympian?” he shouts as he pushes into the room.

*

Biz was right about one thing: he does know _everyone_ in this nowhere town. Sure, he shit-talks everyone when they’re out of earshot, but within forty-five minutes, Biz has wrangled two free pizzas and a case of beer out of the local pizza joint; all Biz has to do is Facetime with the owner’s kids -- (“Timmy says he wants to be just like this bruiser when he grows up,” the guy says, slinging one arm around Biz’s shoulders and pretending to punch him in the stomach.) -- and sign the back of a grubby old menu.

It takes half a pizza and most of the beer before Biz finally asks what Mike had been waiting for the whole time.

“So, how do you really feel about being here?”

Mike balls up his napkin and lobs it at the wastebasket. “I’m just going to work hard, do my job. Feelings? This is business. How I feel doesn’t matter.”

“Ah, come on, don’t give me that PR bullshit.” Biz gestures at Mike with his beer. “That’s a line someone fed you. How do _you_ , Mike Richards, two time Stanley fucking Cup champion, feel about being up here in Manchvegas with me and a bunch of nobodies?”

Mike takes a long drink from his beer and wonders if he should be honest. “Fuck it,” he says abruptly. “It feels like shit, what the fuck do you think? They try to sugar coat it, but it’s a death sentence, or might as well be. ‘Thanks for your service, sorry you’re too fucked up to play with the big boys anymore. Pack your shit, don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.’”

Biz grins, looking a little feral with the way he bares his teeth. “See? I knew you had feelings. Let ‘em out, Rick, it’s good for the -- I don’t know, spleen or something.”

“Oh, please, like you even know where the spleen is?”

“And you do?”

Mike shrugs, lifts his beer up in a toast. “That’s not the point. The point is, like, what are you, my therapist? Chauffeur, babysitter, shrink? I’m not talking about my feelings with-- with--” He gestures weakly at Biz as he trails off.

“I’m just saying, the NHL said they didn’t want me anymore, either.”

Mike laughs. “No, come on, fuck off, that’s--”

“If you say ‘that’s different,’ I will punch you in the fucking face.” Biz looks more serious than Mike’s ever seen him. “You might have more shiny shit with your name on it than me, but, like, what have you wanted ever since you could hold a stick?”

Mike goes quiet until it’s clear that Biz wants a response. “To play in the NHL,” Mike nearly whispers.

“Yeah, well, me too.” Biz tosses back the rest of his beer then gets up to drop the empty in the wastebasket. “And here we are, in a shitty hotel room in Manchester, too-- too stupid to live, too weird to die or whatever.”

“This isn’t what I wanted,” Mike says. “You signed here. They _made_ me come here.”

Biz shakes his head, then heads towards the door. “Listen, if you want to be a dick about it, whatever. Fine. I’m just saying, you and me, we’ve got more in common than you think.”

“I doubt it,” Mike says, but Biz is already gone.

*

It takes Mike three more beers before he realizes that maybe what he said was out of line.

 _i’m an asshole_ , he texts Jeff.

 _tell me something i dont kno_ , Jeff writes back almost immediately, and, well, that was as unhelpful as Mike expected it to be.

Mike texts back a frowny face, three thumbs down emojis, and a picture of the empty pizza box.

 _really let urself go in manch???_ , Jeff responds, and then: _say ur sorry like an adult._

Mike texts a picture of the empty beer cans in the wastebasket.

 _well sleep it off then say ur sorry_ , Jeff responds. _its not fuckin hard._

But it is, though. Mike turns his phone off and flops down on the empty bed, the one without the pizza boxes, and goes to sleep instead.

*

Biz doesn’t say anything to Mike about their talk at their next practice, or at their next game, or on the bus trip to Providence. In fact, Biz hardly talks to Mike at all, which, after his friendship barrage as soon as Mike set foot in Manchester, feels pretty fucking weird.

Mike knows full well that he hasn’t bothered to make any other friends on the team, so Biz giving him the silent treatment means that his days pass in a blur of polite requests to pass the tape and not much else.

There’s no good way to say _I’m an asshole_ , Mike knows full well, other than just saying it, but he tries anyway.

“Hey,” he says, catching Biz by the back of the jersey after practice. “Hey, so.”

“What’s up, champ?”

Mike frowns and knocks his own helmet back. “Look, I--” He makes a frustrated noise and tugs on Biz’s jersey again. “Look, just, like -- pizza and beer tonight?” Despite having the words _I’m sorry_ on the tip of his tongue, that’s all Mike can come out with, a half-assed peace offering.

Biz shrugs. “You pay,” he says, then pulls out of Mike’s grasp and heads up the ice alone.

*

“So, I’m an asshole,” Mike says. It only takes him two beers to get to the apology stage, which is fairly impressive for him.

“Really.”

“I know what you were trying to say, before, about both of us being here.” Mike puts the can of beer down on the floor. “You’re trying to help, I get it. It's just -- How long did it take you to be _okay_ with it?"

"I was gonna go to fucking _England_ to keep playing, man. I was okay with being _here_ the second I had a contract in front of my face. It's not the same as being up in the NHL, but what can you do? You buckle down, do the work, help your team out. That's all you can do. I'm not getting a call-up, I'm not getting a two-way. I'm a fucking fourth line plug, but you?" Biz shakes his head. "Whatever you fucked up to get you sent down here? You un-fuck it up, how about that?"

Mike shakes his head. "It's not like that."

" _Whatever_ it's like, then. You either fix it, or you work on, fuck, aligning your chakras so your soul is in balance with the universe or whatever."

"Huh?"

"I went to yoga before practice, you shut the fuck up. My point is -- you either live long enough to become the fourth line AHL plug you made fun of your whole career, or you die a hero."

"What the _fuck_ , Biz?" Mike's laughing despite himself. "What the fuck."

"I mean it. You want to go out with your skates on? Then bust ass to get called back up. Show them why waiving you was a dumb fucking idea. But don't sit there and fucking tell me that it's _different_ that we're here, when we wanted the same thing. The only difference there is, well, you won shit, and I didn't.  That's it."

"I shouldn't have said any of it." Mike picks at fuzz on the worn bedspread. "I shouldn't have, it wasn't cool."

"Damn fucking right," Biz says. "You're still an asshole, but apology accepted. Now, try scoring some more fucking goals, will you?"

*

Things with Biz are okay after that, Mike thinks. They're better than before, at least -- everyone in the locker room stops looking at him like he's some sort of traitor and actually starts talking to him again. It's not much, but it's a start.

He even starts going out with the team after games, just for something to _do_.

"Hey, this round's on me," he says halfway through the night, then makes his way to the bar to the cheers of his teammates.

“You lose a bet or something?” the bartender asks. Mike looks up -- and up, and up -- at the guy. He didn’t have much reason to pay attention to who was behind the bar before, but now, he wishes he had. The guy’s tall and lanky, with messy blonde hair and a smile that lights up his whole face.

Mike’s throat goes dry and he has to swallow hard before speaking. "Nah, just trying to be nice to the kids." Mike taps his credit card against the bar, then slides it over. The bartender turns around to take it and Mike smiles up at him. "They had a good night, they deserve a break."

Mike, in fact, can't quite stop himself from watching the bartender. It's been a long time since Mike's bothered to _look_ , and now he can't seem to drag his attention away from the way the bartender’s long fingers wrap around the necks of the empty beer bottles he sweeps off of the bartop.

The guy nods his head at Mike’s teammates. "You the coach of that bunch or something?"

Mike has to laugh at that. "Shit, no," he says. "They're not _that_ young. Or, ah." He scratches at the back of his neck and watches the bartender roll the sleeves of his plaid shirt up past his elbows.

"Or what?" He grins, all teeth.

"Or, at least, I'm not that _old_ , come on, man." Mike looks away, feeling like he's been _watching_ for too long as it is.

The guy pushes a new batch of bottles over to Mike, leans in and squints at Mike a little as he does. “I don’t know, I’ve got to think about it." He nods and gestures over Mike's shoulder. "Your buddy's on his way. Think you're taking too long with the refills."

"Oh. Right." He’d almost forgotten about the round he was buying. Mike glances back to see Biz approaching.

"You going to take all fucking day or what?" Biz asks as he scoops up as many bottles as he can carry. "You get the others, man, the kids are getting restless."

Mike watches as Biz walks off with the beers, then looks back up at the bartender, who's pushing one hand through his already messy hair and watching carefully. "Hey, uh, thanks," Mike says, already feeling awkward, wondering exactly what Biz heard. “Keep the tab open, I’ll probably grab another one here soon.”

The guy smiles and slouches up against the back counter. “Go take care of your boys now,” he says, waving Mike away.

Mike -- goes.  He _goes_ , because he’s not so dumb as to eye-fuck some bartender in fucking _Manchester_ , he knows better. He _knows_.

“Here, you fucking drunks,” Mike says, handing the beers out to the rest of the guys. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.” He takes a beer for himself and slouches down in an empty booth, away from the team.

Biz, unsurprisingly, slides in next to him.

“Tall, blonde, and kinda dumb,” he says, clinking the sides of their bottles together. “I thought maybe you had a type. I see how it is.”

“Huh?” Mike’s head jerks up; almost involuntarily, his gaze finds the bartender, who gives him a little wave as soon as they make eye contact.

Biz follows Mike’s gaze to the bar and grins. “You wanna know the best part about playing up here, Rick?” Biz asks as he slings his arm around Mike’s shoulder.

Mike looks down and drags his index finger through the rings of moisture his beer’s already left on the table. Biz is going to tell him no matter what he responds. “What?”

“No one gives two shits about what you do.” Biz points with his bottle at the bartender. “His name’s Austin. Nice kid, maybe a little young for you, but, eh.” He knocks Mike’s ballcap off and ruffles his hair. “You should go say hi. Find something you like about this city?”

Mike looks away. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he protests, a bit too weakly.

“Of course I don’t,” Biz says, then climbs back out of the booth. “I never do, do I?” Before Mike can respond, Biz walks off to join the rest of the team. “Neilsy!” he shouts. “Tell everyone again about that time you went dick-first into the post in a goddamned practice, huh?”

Mike sighs and abandons his beer at the table, heading up to the bar instead.

“Another round already?” asks Austin. He’s got bright green eyes and a nice smile and Mike wants--

“Nah, close my tab, I’m gonna get out of here.” Mike wants to go _home_.

Austin’s smile droops. “Ah. Okay then.” Mike looks away as Austin turns to the register to run the card. When he looks back, his card’s in front of him. “Top one’s mine, the rest is yours. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime?” Austin lifts up the top receipt to show Mike’s copy, with a phone number scrawled on the bottom. “Maybe without your boys?”

Mike looks from the receipt, up to Austin. “Uh.” He takes his cap off, puts it back on backwards. “Maybe, yeah.” He tries to smile, is pretty sure he just looks uncomfortable, then gives up and just signs his name. By the time he looks up again, Austin’s gone, pouring beers at the other end of the bar.

He hesitates for a moment, then grabs the receipt with Austin’s number and stuffs it into his wallet.

*

Mike keeps the receipt. He’s not sure why -- he’s never going to call Austin. But every time he goes back to his hotel, the receipt’s just sitting there on the nightstand, waiting for him to make up his mind.

He _could_ call Austin, and just -- just _see_.

He could go out, but he has a game tomorrow and he _knows_ better.

He could call -- well, no, that was a _long_ time ago.

Mike doesn’t do any of these things. Instead, he stretches out in bed with his laptop. He’ll answer some emails, he decides, maybe dick around on the internet until he gets bored.

He only gets halfway through the emails he'd been ignoring since he got sent down when he starts hearing a low, throbbing beat from next door. He looks over his shoulder, as if the wall could tell him anything interesting. The music continues and Mike sighs. Bad neighbors practically come with the territory of being stuck in an extended-stay hotel, but the thumping next door is already growing irritating.

He opens iTunes, tries to drown out the noise from next door, but the tinny laptop speakers are no match for whatever's happening over there.

A woman laughs, then Mike hears a _thump_ of the headboard hitting the wall, followed by more laughter.

"Christ," Mike mutters. He could get up and get his headphones, but he's also nestled into bed, the pillows squished up perfectly to support that ever-present ache in the small of his back.

Next door, the headboard thumps again, followed by more laughing, and then another thump.  And _another_. And--

The song ends, and everything goes blissfully quiet. In the seconds before the next song starts up, the woman moans. In the silence, he’s sure he can hear every noise she makes, every last little gasp as she’s--

Mike shifts in bed, uncomfortably aware of exactly how parts of him are feeling about overhearing this.

He can’t linger on that thought for too long, though, because the music starts up again. Mike slams his laptop shut and shoves it aside. "You've got to be fucking _kidding_ me." He stands up and lingers in the space between the beds in his room, listening to the heavy dance beat from next year, punctuated by loud bumps from the headboard against the wall.

Mike -- Mike _understands_ fucking in a hotel room. He really, truly does. Sometimes, that’s the only place to get any. It’s _fine_. He's spent more time in hotel rooms than his own bed, some years, so he _gets_ it. But--

"No fucking _respec_ t," he says, glaring at the wall, like if he could just _stare_ hard enough at the wall, that they'd stop.  Or at least turn off that garbage fucking electronic bullshit.

The song ramps up to what Mike can only assume is the most important part, because it sounds like fucking laser guns going off next door. "That is fucking _it_ ," Mike says. He stomps to the dresser and swipes his room key from the mess, then heads to the door. He doesn't care _what_ they're up to next door; they are going to be quiet _right fucking now_.

"Goddamn kids," Mike mutters as he undoes the deadbolt and opens the door. "No fucking idea how goddamn--"

Mike stops, because Biz is in the hallway, dancing to the beat.

"What the fuck," Mike says.

"Cool dance party," Biz says. He pumps his fist in the air. "David Guetta? Your neighbors have much better taste than you, Mr. Big & Rich."

Mike ducks his head, rubs his face against his t-shirt. When he looks up, Biz is still there, twisting his hips in time with the beat. "What the fuck?"

“Why does it feel so good to be bad?” Biz sings -- poorly -- along with the muffled lyrics. “Hey, you think if I knocked, they'd let me come dance with them?"

"They're fucking," Mike says. "So probably not."

"Probably _yes_ ," Biz says. He's got his back to Mike, but he turns his head back to flash him a huge grin.

Mike resists the urge to slam the door in Biz’s face. "Why are you even here?" Mike doesn't _want_ to ask, but he feels like he should.

"Bored." Biz does a little twirl, then starts -- well, Mike doesn't know _what_ he's doing with his hips, but it looks pretty obscene. " _You_ bored?"

"Not bored enough for a dance party."  Biz does something that looks like a moonwalk down the hall and Mike sighs. "Look, just -- come in before someone fucking sees you doing --" He gestures at Biz, who _might_ be trying to twerk. Mike hates that he even knows what twerking is. "--whatever the fuck that is. Come on."

Mike walks back into the room, knowing that Biz isn't going to be far behind.

True to form, Biz sneaks in just before the door closes. "Woah," he says, flopping down on the spare bed. "It's like a fucking nightclub in here."  Biz rolls over, stretching one arm up over his head to flick the light on and off in time with the beat.

"Seriously, _why_ are you here?"

"Told you," he says. "Bored. Neilsy and Drew are out. Thought I'd see how the old guy club is doing." Biz stops fucking with the light when he spots the crinkled-up receipt from the bar the other night on Mike's nightstand. "The newest member of the old guy club is getting some dick?" Biz sits back up and holds the receipts up, grinning wide at Mike.

"Fucking--" Mike closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Okay, first, that's none of your business."

" _Oh_ ," Biz says, his smile fading. "Oh, you're _not_ , is that why you're so fucking cranky all the time?" He waves the receipt at Mike. "Come on, you're going to, like, bring down team morale even more. Go get some--"

The woman next door punctuates Biz's words with a moan of your own.

"--like _that_."

" _None_ of your business," Mike says. He steps forward and snatches the receipt from Biz, then crosses the room to stuff it in his backpack, far out of Biz's reach. "Now if you're going to keep being an asshole--"

The headboard starts thumping again; this time, the man next door starts grunting.

"Are they always like this?"

Mike sighs and sits down on his bed. "This is new. The dance party and the--" He gestures at the wall; the neighbors help out with a well-timed rattle of the headboard. "And the fucking. That's all new."

Biz sits up opposite Mike, mirroring his position, knees on elbows, head in hands. "It'll be a good story someday," Biz offers. "'And kids, that's how I met your mother.'"

Mike opens his mouth, then shuts it, shakes his head. "How would I -- no. Never mind."

Biz scratches his knee. Mike looks down at his feet, curls his toes against the carpet.

The couple next door -- well, at least they’re having fun, that much is obvious. The banging of the headboard speeds up, then slows, then speeds up again, then stops abruptly.

Biz whistles lowly. “Jesus.”

Mike laughs. There’s nothing else to it -- this is his life now, sitting with Paul Bissonnette in a shitty hotel room, listening to other people fuck. He has to laugh, otherwise he’s going to pick up the phone and beg Dean Lombardi to bring him back to Los Angeles.

“You should call your boy,” Biz says. “The bartender. Get him to come over, maybe he’ll get here before Harry and Sally there go for round two.”

"I don't think so." Mike shakes his head.

"Look, it's not fair that your neighbors are getting laid and making you listen to it. If you're not going to hit it with the bartender, at least just, you know, fuckin' pull up Redtube and jack off nice and loud for them while they're not doing it." Biz gestures at Mike's laptop. "Not getting off is like letting the terrorists win."

Mike gestures at Biz. "Yeah, nice idea. You're in my hotel room."

"And?" Biz flops back on the bed, stretching out.  He looks like he's making himself comfortable, which is the absolute last thing in the _universe_ that Mike wants. "I'll close my eyes."

"You're fucking kidding me."

"Like you've never jacked it with someone else in the room?" Biz props himself up on one elbow. "If you say no, you're a fucking liar. I don't know anyone who got through _juniors_ without it. I don't know a single guy in the league who hasn't. Don’t tell me, all those years you and --"

"Hey." Mike fixes Biz with a sharp look. "Leave it.”

Biz lifts his hands up. “Fine, fine. I’m just saying, if you didn’t get it up listening to those weirdos go at it -- I mean, I could go right now, is what I’m saying.”

Mike digs his fingers into his thigh. Biz isn’t _wrong_ , is the thing.  “Don’t you dare,” Mike says. “Sometimes I sleep in that bed.”

"Come on," Biz says. "You know you want to. You've been sitting here listening to them fuck all night, you can't tell me that doesn't just -- I mean, have you even hooked up with anyone here?"

Mike shakes his head, then tips his chin up to look at the ceiling. He stares at the sprinkler and wonders if Biz will go away if he just ignores him.

"Jesus, man, come _on_ , then. I'll even look away, promise."

"You're fucking--" Mike breaks off and laughs. “You’re serious.”

“As a fucking--”

The woman next door moans, then laughs. There’s a loud clatter, followed by more laughter, and then the abrupt _rat-a-tat-tat_ of another song starting up.

“Round two already. Missed your chance to call blondie.” Biz grins. “Listen, if you’re not going to give them a show, I will.”

“Wait, what? No, hold on --”

It’s too late, though; Biz already has his shorts pushed down over his hips.  Mike focuses on the shorts of all things, the way the fabric pulls taut as Biz lets his legs fall open.  If he keeps looking at the shorts, maybe he won’t--

“If you’re going to watch,” Biz starts, and Mike-- Mike tries to look anywhere else, at the ceiling, at the ugly painting of a lighthouse over the bed, at the sprinkler on the wall, but he can’t stop staring at the way Biz’s fist slides up his dick. “If you’re going to make it weird, you might as well go all the way.” With his free hand, Biz pats the empty spot on the bed next to him.

Mike stands up. He’s going to go to the bathroom. Or maybe the vending machines. Or maybe he’s going to get in his car and drive back to fucking California before anyone can stop him.

Or maybe he’s going to perch on the edge of Biz’s bed.

“ _Good_ ,” Biz says. He winks at Mike, then closes his eyes and nestles his head back against the pillows.

Biz touches himself with almost an angry sort of intensity that Mike finds impressive in its determination. Very quickly, Biz’s hand falls into a rhythm with the sound of the headboard thumping against the wall next door. Mike lets out a laugh, then bites down on his lower lip to stop from laughing _more._

“Stop it.” Biz kicks out with one foot, connecting with Mike’s thigh. “You’re being--” He pauses, cutting himself off as his hips arch up off of the bed. “Ah, you’re being distracting.”

“Like that matters to you?” Mike shifts uncomfortably on the bed, trying to ignore the fact that his shorts are getting tighter, the longer he watches.

As Mike reaches down to try to adjust himself, Biz looks over at him. He grins as he watches Mike press the heel of his hand against his dick. Mike _knows_ that smile.

“ _What_?” Mike asks hoarsely.

“You _are_ getting off on this. Can I-- you know, what if I--” He stops stroking himself and gestures at Mike instead.

There are at least eight reasons Mike can come up with immediately that point to that being an awful idea, starting with the fact that it’s fucking _Biz_ , who’s now crawling up the bed towards Mike.

But -- the fact that it’s _Biz_ also makes it easy for Mike to say yes, because if there’s been anything that’s been true since Mike’s first day in Manchester, Biz for some reason has _actually_ been looking out for him. Of all the people Mike’s met here, it turns out that _Biz_ is the one he trusts the most.

“Alright,” Mike agrees. “Just don’t be an asshole about it.”

“Don’t worry,” Biz says as he reaches out to tug Mike’s shorts down. “I know, no teeth.”

“Christ, that’s not what-- _fuck--_ ” Mike cuts himself off, because that’s Biz’s mouth on his dick, and it’s just been so _long_ and --

Mike curls his fingers in the sheets and watches the bob of Biz’s head, the hollow of his cheeks, the flex and jump of his muscles as he holds Mike’s hips in place. It’s -- it’s _something_ , is what it is, and it’s easy to get lost, to just close his eyes and enjoy himself for goddamn once.

*

There’s a moment, right after Biz comes, shooting into his own fist with a muttered curse, that Mike thinks _maybe Manchester isn’t so bad after all_.

Of course, right afterwards, Biz grimaces and wipes his hand on the bedspread.

“Be a fucking gentleman, come on,” Mike murmurs. He’s half asleep, but he can still muster a disgusted expression.

“I’ll leave a tip for housekeeping.” Biz moves around so he can kick the bedspread down, then stretches out next to Mike. “Like they’ve never cleaned up jizz before,” he adds through a yawn.

Mike closes his eyes, rolls over onto his side. “Not the point,” he says. He’s got more of an argument, he’s pretty sure, but as he pulls the sheet up around his shoulders, he trails off, too tired to keep going.

*

Mike wakes up alone, but for the first time since he touched down in Manchester, he feels like he actually got a full night’s sleep.

It’s too much to hope that last night was just a weird dream, but, based on the wad of balled-up tissues that didn’t quite make it to the wastebasket, it was not.

Mike rolls of of bed, stretches, ignores the way his body aches -- none of that’s new, anyhow. He paces the room, trying to wake up and assess what hurts most today.  On the table, Mike notices the hotel notepad’s been knocked askew.

He’s already frowning as he picks it up to read, like he knows what he’s going to see, and he’s not _wrong_ , exactly.

Once Mike flips past the pages he’s already used, full of scribbled notes from conversations with his agent, there’s a drawing of a smiley face with hearts for eyes.

 _THX 4 THE GOOD TIME CHAMP_ , the note reads in Biz’s messy, all-caps scrawl. _C U @ SKATE!!!!_

Mike drops the notepad back down to the table and -- he’s not sure what his face is doing, but he _thinks_ he’s smiling.

“Shit,” he says out loud. “Shit, what a fuckin’--” And then he laughs, because if there was _anything_ that would get him settled in Manchester, it just had to be Biz getting on his knees for him, didn’t it?

And then he picks up his phone, dials a familiar number. There’s no answer, it’s too early for that, but Mike grins anyway whenever the voicemail kicks in. “Hey,” he says, “I have the _wildest_ story. You should call me later.”

He hangs up, tosses his phone in his bag, then heads to the shower.

Mike’s got to go to the rink. He’s got work to do.


End file.
